


where the love light gleams

by velvetnoodle (goldfishsunglasses)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Exes to Lovers, Kissing, M/M, in modern times, small angst?, takes place in wisconsin but they're still english it's fine, victorian houses, why is that still not a tag y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 15:58:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17144741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishsunglasses/pseuds/velvetnoodle
Summary: Harry can’t help but feel like it’s his own fault; if he hadn’t gone to that fucking game, he wouldn’t have been in town to get invited to the concert. And if he’d just said no to the concert (the free concert) then he’d be in Holmes Chapel right now. He’d be with his sister and mum and his family and friends, and not stuck spending Christmas all alone in bloody Wisconsin.When his lonely Christmas Eve is interrupted by the unexpected arrival of his ex-boyfriend, Louis, Harry is hesitant to believe that it’s fate. What begins as a series of random coincidences slowly morphs into an evening of second chances and holiday miracles and peppermint-flavoured kisses that could change Harry’s future forever





	where the love light gleams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LiterallyAmazingPhan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiterallyAmazingPhan/gifts).



> [here](https://imgur.com/a/4CELsnj) is a picture of how i imagine harry's house in the story
> 
> HUGE AND MASSIVE thanks to everyone who helped bring this fic to life, even when i was so sure it was never going to get written. but it did and i'm so excited to share ( ﾉ ^ヮ^ )ﾉﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ
> 
> happy holidays and happy reading!!

It’s not until he pulls the third baking tray from the oven that Harry realises he’s made entirely too many Christmas cookies. Never in 24 years has Harry ever had this problem, and it only serves to remind him that it’s Christmas Eve and he’s disturbingly, depressingly, and desperately  _ alone.  _

He can’t help but feel like it’s his own fault; if he hadn’t gone to that fucking game, he wouldn’t have been in town to get invited to the concert. And if he’d just said no to the concert (the  _ free concert _ ), then he’d be in Holmes Chapel right now. He’d be with his sister and mum and his family and friends, and not stuck in bloody  _ Wisconsin _ . 

There’s nowhere to put the baking tray. The other two are currently covering the stovetop, and he can’t quite bring himself to set the hot metal directly on his countertops. Without letting go of the baking tray, he opens a cupboard, grabs a plate, and proceeds to quickly move the (somewhat) cooled cookies from one of the trays on the stove to the plate, all the while feeling the heat through the oven glove increasing. Reminding him that he’s effectively holding a sheet of burning metal. 

“ _ Fuck, _ ” he swears quietly as he tosses - and breaks - the last two cookies onto the plate just as the burning sensation gets to be too much. The clang of the two metal trays colliding is harsh on his ears, and he winces a bit as it echoes in the too-empty room. 

The clock he’d bought as a laugh when he first moved into this house - the kitschy cat one with the eyes - is taunting him.  _ Your fault your fault your fault  _ it seems to be saying, its normally adorable grin turned mocking and grotesque. 

It’s possible he’s going a bit mad. 

Which is ridiculous, as he lives by himself. In a house far too big for just one person, yes, but it’s never bothered him before. He’s never been afraid like this before.

He’s also never felt more alone here before.

“I’m not afraid,” he mumbles to himself, and then clamps his mouth shut lest he descend further into madness. And he really isn’t. Honestly. It’s just that he likes having people around, or knowing he can easily reach them by phone or text or even email. And he still could, probably. It’s just that everyone he knows is busy with their own families, and he doesn’t want to ruin that for them. Like he did for himself. Anyway, it’s fine. He’s fine.

Harry just really,  _ really _ , hates to be alone.

It’s barely half-five, but the daylight has faded enough that he should have turned on a lamp ages ago. He hadn’t even realised the room had been steadily darkening, made worse by the heavy curtains pulled tight to keep out the cold. 

He almost doesn’t recognise the chime at first; it’s an unfamiliar sound that really should be more familiar considering it’s his own bleeding doorbell. In his defence, though, it’s not a sound he hears often. His house is far enough away from most roads, and intimidating enough that most solicitors give it a wide berth. (The ‘no solicitors’ sign helps, as does the injunction keeping photographers away.) His post and any packages get sent to a P.O. box in the nearby town, and anyone else would know to call first. So that’s what makes this odd, the chime of the doorbell. Because it’s Christmas Eve, he isn’t expecting anyone, and all of his mates either have a key or know about the one under the fake rock. 

For a moment, he considers ignoring the noise. Again, he isn’t expecting anyone, and he’s managed to freak himself out enough thanks to the clock and the silence that he’s not exactly keen on interacting with strangers at the moment. Plus, it’s cold. It’s cold and wet and snowing and he’d really prefer to stay here in his warm house, thanks. 

_ But what if it’s someone who needs help _ the do-gooder voice in the back of his head points out, rather unhelpfully.  _ What if their car is stuck in the snow and you don’t answer the door and something happens to them and it’s your fault? _

Harry sighs, because he’d rather not have something like that on his conscience, especially not on Christmas, so he stands to make his way to the front hallway. But not before the chime goes off again, twice in rapid succession, followed by a loud set of knocks that make him pause. Because he might not recognise his own bloody doorbell, but he’d recognise that pattern anywhere. 

Except… No, he’s just imagining things. There’s no way it could be him. It’s just an odd coincidence. And an unfortunate one, too, as he’s now not only feeling guilty for abandoning his family for the holidays, feeling sorry for himself because of his own crap decision-making, but now he’s thinking about past mistakes as well. No thanks to whoever is on the other side of his front door. 

The chime goes off  _ again _ , like whoever is there has pressed it and is holding down. Like they’re desperate. Harry picks up his pace, trying to ignore the increased pounding of his heart and the way his hands have started to sweat a bit. 

“Coming!” he calls, “just...hang on! I’m coming! I’ll be right there!” and then, softer and to himself, “fucks sake, hang  _ on _ .”

“Hurry up!” the mysterious stranger nearly shouts, and Harry catches his toe on the rug as he stumbles in surprise. 

“Louis?” he asks tentatively, unsure if he can be heard through the heavy wooden door, but then rushes to open it without waiting for a proper answer. He slips again on the same fucking rug in his haste, so he falls into the door before he’s able to properly open it, but when he does, it’s…

Well, it’s Louis. 

“Took you long enough,” he says, like his appearance hasn’t just turned Harry’s world upside-down. Like he’d ever expected to see his ex-boyfriend again. Like there’s a rational reason for him to be here and not home. In England. In Doncaster. Where he lives. 

“I—” Harry starts, but he can’t seem to get any actual words to come out. “I—” he tries again, and then just gives up, as it’s a lost cause, and he’d much rather watch Louis try to explain himself without prompting. It was always funnier that way. 

And Harry could really, _really_ , use a laugh right about now.  

“Right,” Louis says, in the complete absence of a proper greeting, “well, then. Reckon you’re wondering why I’m here.”

_ No shit, _ Harry says in his head, because his words are still betraying him, and even if he fucking remembered how to do that talking thing, his tongue feels too dry (and just a tiny bit swollen) so he’s not quite sure that would work anyway. Instead, he just nods dumbly, and goes a bit pink when Louis raises his eyebrows in amusement. 

“Cat got your tongue?” he asks, far too playfully for the moment, and Harry manages to shake his head. Louis’ face lights up like he’s just remembered something. “You’ve got one of those now, haven’t you? I saw it in—” he cuts himself off abruptly, his own face going a bit pink at the accidental admission. Harry doesn’t know what to do with the knowledge that Louis has kept up with his life, at least the bits available on the internet. Anyway, Evie still lives with his mum and their two other cats back in Holmes Chapel, and he hadn’t been missing her as fiercely as the rest of the people he was missing out on seeing, but now he is. Thanks to Louis. Thanks to  _ fucking Louis.  _

He finally opens his mouth to tell the other man to fuck off, but instead he says, “I don’t have a cat.” And nothing else, because apparently that’s the most he can say. Louis looks a bit disappointed at that fact, and Harry almost feels bad for disappointing him until he remembers what’s happening here. 

There’s more awkward silence, and just as it’s begun to stretch on an unbearable amount, Louis shatters it completely. “Are you gonna invite me in then?”

Harry mulls it over for a second. There was never actually any bad blood between the two of them, the split had been mutual - amicable, even - and he’s never felt any ill will towards Louis. He knows any anger he’s feeling in this moment isn’t actually rational, it’s just him projecting his own guilt onto the only person around. Still… 

No, he won’t do that. He can’t. Plus, he’s getting sort of curious as to why Louis is even here. And that explanation would sound much nicer inside his warm house. Possibly with some hot chocolate. Or perhaps something stronger. Something  _ much  _ stronger. 

“I’ll head back to me car if you really don’t want me here, lad” Louis says, interrupting his thoughts once again, “but make up your mind soon, yeah? ‘m freezing my bollocks off out here.” 

Harry winces in sympathy, because he’s become familiar enough with the frigid Wisconsin temperatures to knock about the bollocks thing, and (still) wordlessly steps aside to let Louis enter. 

He closes the door once Louis enters, but doesn’t move much as he watches Louis shake off snow and stomp his boots on the rug. “How do you know where I live?” he says. Because he didn’t know Louis knew. He doesn’t know if he didn’t want Louis to know, but he never really got around to finding out. And now, Louis apparently knew. 

“I don’t. I mean, I didn’t. I didn’t know.”

“Sorry?”

“I don’t. I’m here for work. I had no idea this was your house. You’re well good at hiding, did you know? Literally no one knows where you live.”

“Lots of people know where I live,” Harry says hotly, “people who I—” He cuts himself off immediately, because he’d been about to say ‘people who I care about,” and judging by the expression on Louis’ face, he knows what Harry was about to say as well.  

“Why are you here? Cos it’s not like I don’t like seeing you, it’s just— Well, why are you here, Louis? Why here? Why tonight?”

“Did you not just hear me say I didn’t know this was your house?”

Harry did,  _ obviously, _ he’s just not sure he believes it. Louis’ never lied to him before - it’d been their thing; no secrets - but Harry doesn’t know this Louis. This Louis might have secrets. This Louis makes him nervous, as much as Harry wants to trust him. And Harry really,  _ really  _ wants to trust him. He sighs.

“If you really didn’t know this was my house, then why are you here? What sort of work are you even doing, Lou? Do you know what bloody time it is? Or the date?”

Louis doesn’t seem fazed by Harry’s attempted third degree, and he’s recovered surprisingly well from his apparent initial shock at finding Harry on the other side of the door. “I’m a location scout?” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “For— well, I can’t actually tell you yet, not til you agree. Sign a contract and all that. I can give you some vague details though, if you like. Well, I can tell you it’s a movie. I’d have to check with me boss to see what else I can spill, but I’m not sure I could get him on the phone at this hour.”

Harry blinks. “This is a lot of information to absorb in 30 seconds,” he says, and to Louis’ credit, he looks a bit sheepish. Harry can’t help but feel intrigued, though. His curiosity gets the best of him, and instead of demanding Louis leave immediately, he gestures for Louis to follow him into the living room, waiting until Louis’ made himself comfortable in a plush wingback chair before asking, “Why my house?”

“Because it’s pink,” Louis says, like it’s obvious. “And… what’s the word… Different? Exciting? New? Odd? Er…”

“I understand,” Harry says, because, yeah, his house is all of those things. And possibly more. “But I don’t understand why you’re here.”

“To… to ask? I thought I made that clear?” 

Harry’s jaw drops, and he shuts it just as quickly. “But it’s Christmas Eve.”

Louis grimaces. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” 

“And you’re, what, working?”

“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock.”

“That’s kinda fucked up.” Harry busies himself with adjusting his fringe, because his hands are shaking and he doesn’t want Louis to see. 

“Innit,” Louis snorts. “It’s well fucked.”  

Harry doesn’t say anything else, and Louis makes as if to stand up. Harry watches him do so, and his tongue feels too heavy to stop him. But he’s gone from wanting Louis to leave to, well, not wanting that anymore. 

“Wait!” he cries, and Louis pauses, bum still hovering over the chair cushion. “Stay,” Harry says. “I don’t know if I can even make that decision tonight but, like, I don’t wanna make you drive in this weather. Plus, it’s like, a blizzard? How did you even make it out here in the first place?”

Louis shrugs. “Luck? Sheer stupidity? Christmas miracle? You take your pick.”

“Oh, you’re a miracle now? How adorably humble of you.”

“Well, I was born on Christmas Eve and all.”

Harry freezes. Because he didn’t forget, he  _ didn’t _ , he just. Well, it slipped his mind. “It’s your birthday!” he shouts, and then clamps a hand over his mouth, as he really didn’t mean to shout it quite that loudly. 

Louis’ laughing at him with only his eyes, and the small twitch at the corner of his mouth lets Harry know it’s not mean. He’s always been able to read Louis easily, and even though they haven’t seen each other in donkey’s years, Harry feels certain he still can. 

Bum finally making contact with the chair cushion, Louis sighs and pulls out his mobile. He frowns at whatever he sees there, and Harry just wants to wipe that look off his face. It’s Christmas Eve. No one should frown on Christmas Eve.

Or their birthday.

It’s Louis’ birthday!

Harry winces until he realises he hadn’t spoken aloud this time, which is good, because he’s currently forming a plan. A secret plan that Louis can’t know about, because it would ruin the surprise. And that’s exactly what Harry plans to do. A birthday surprise for Louis. It’ll be perfect. 

Or, it will be, once Harry figures out how the fuck he’s going to pull this off. It obviously can’t be a proper party, as it’s only the two of them. And he’s got no party decorations in. There’s no entertainment, nothing remotely party like that he can throw together in… well, however long he can keep Louis distracted for. 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Louis quips.

“Sorry?”

“Thinking too hard. Don’t hurt yourself; there’s practically smoke coming out your ears already.”

Harry reaches up self-consciously, and pulls his hand away quickly. Not in time though, not before Louis notices and snorts. Harry feels himself blushes, but Louis doesn’t comment further, just returns his attention to his phone screen. The frown returns, deeper and frown-ier this time, and there’s a wrinkle between his brows that wasn’t there before. 

A series of sharp, consecutive buzzes makes Harry jump, and Louis mumbles a resigned-sounding ‘bloody hell’ under his breath. 

“I’ve got to—” he points from the phone to the doorway, his face a question now. “Is it okay… I mean is there somewhere…”

“Another room? I’ve got lots of those,” Harry says. And he does, far too many for one person. “What kind of room do you need?”

Louis looks at him with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “How many kinds have you got?”

“Well, there’s a study. And then something else that I think is a study too, only the real estate woman called it something different? Or the library! Would you like to go to the library? Or there’s…”

Louis holds up a hand, more amused than confused now. “Study is fine; is it upstairs?”

Harry nods. “Would you like me to show you?”

“Nah, I think I can manage,” Louis replies, and Harry is disappointed until he realises this gives him more time to prepare Louis’ birthday surprise. Well, cake. If he moves quickly, he should be able to get it in the oven before Louis is done. Maybe more, if he’s lucky. 

“Will you be gone long?”

Louis shrugs. “Could be. I’m not exactly me bosses favourite person at the moment. Not that I did anything wrong.” The last part is said with more venom, and Harry frowns. He’s about to ask Louis to clarify when Louis continues on his own. “This assignment is a bit of a punishment, I think. For standing up to… well, the wrong people I guess. Assistants aren’t allowed opinions.” More bitterness colours his tone, and Harry’s hand twitches at his side with the need to reach out and comfort him. 

He doesn’t, though, and Louis perks up. (Unnaturally so, in Harry’s opinion.) “Well, I’ll be off then,” he chirps. “Well, not— you know what I mean.”

Harry nods, and lets Louis go without any further comment. He can’t turn away though, not as Louis makes his way out of the room, not as Louis reaches the base of the staircase, and not as Louis begins to ascend the spiraled structure. 

_ Maybe you  _ are  _ my Christmas miracle, _ Harry thinks as he watches, and then quickly shakes that thought away. He can’t allow himself to hope like that, not when Louis is only here for work, and because it’s snowing and cold and he was alone. Just like Harry. But this is it, he gets Louis for Christmas, and this is  _ it _ . 

He can’t allow himself to hope for more. 

~*~

Harry is sat on the floor when Louis returns, and he kind of wishes it would just swallow him up. 

“Power cut,” Louis says, like Harry can’t tell. Like his magnificent birthday cake plans haven’t just been dashed by the weather. Louis must not be as unobservant as Harry assumes, though, because he approaches Harry tentatively. “What’s wrong?” When Harry doesn’t answer, Louis crouches down to his level and places a hand on his arm. “Hazza?”

Harry can’t help but flinch internally. He hasn’t been called that in years, especially not by Louis. “I ruined it,” he says miserably, and Louis’ eyebrows knit together, making him look adorably confused. 

“I’m sure you didn’t ruin it,” he says, and Harry sniffles. “Just out of curiosity,” Louis continues, sounding a bit more hesitant now, “what exactly is it that you haven’t ruined?”

“Your birthday cake.”

Louis looks surprised but pleased. “You made me a cake?”

“I tried to make you a cake.” Harry’s shoulders slump. “It didn’t really work out. 

“Can I see it?”

Harry shrugs and scoots out of the way so Louis can check inside the oven.

“We can still eat it,” he says.

“No!” Harry cries. “You’ll get ill!”

“Fuck salmonella. Or whatever it is.”

“Louis!”

“What?”

“Give me back the spoon!”

“What spoon?” Louis asks, only it’s a little garbled because he’s speaking with a spoon sticking out of his mouth. 

“Lou!”

“Fine,” he grumbles, and allows Harry to retrieve the spoon. “What’s for tea, then? Since I’m being deprived of me own birthday cake.”

“I don’t have much in,” Harry says regretfully, even as he’s rolling his eyes at Louis. “And even less that we can make without, you know, an oven. Unless you fancy a meal of only Christmas cookies?”

“Can’t we just, like, use the gas part? It can’t be that hard, right? Just google it or whatever.”

“Why can’t you google it?”

“Because,” Louis says slow and patient, like he’s explaining to a small child, “I came up with the idea. Brains of this operation, I am. And that makes you the…”

Harry takes advantage of Louis’ dramatic pause to volunteer, “Beauty?”

“Designated googler.” Harry snickers as Louis winces. “That sounded better in me head.”

Harry fixes him with a look that he hopes conveys “are you a fucking child?” clear enough, and pulls out his phone to begin his search. The first three results are proving to be unhelpful, and the fourth is a Reddit thread, which is moderately informative and he’s about to tell Louis what he’s just learned when he spots a thread called “I asked for scrambled eggs and a waiter brought me sunny side up. What do I do?” and, naturally, clicks the link. 

He’s halfway through the comments, tutting at every new piece of information the poor OP provides, when he remembers he was meant to be doing something else entirely. Mostly because Louis keeps clearing his throat repeatedly, and it finally dawns on Harry that he might be doing it for a reason. Like to remind Harry that he’s the googler - Harry snorts to himself - and that he’s abandoned Louis in his time of need. 

He’s only being a tiny bit dramatic; a hungry Louis is not a pleasant person to be around. Well, that’s not exactly true, as Harry always finds Louis pleasant to be around, but he’s most likely the exception to the rule rather than an example. Still, though, they need to eat something other than Christmas cookies, even if his 7-year-old self is celebrating this most sought after accomplishment finally being achieved. Just in time for him to be too old to enjoy the indulgence. 

“I’m firing you.” Louis’ voice cuts into his thoughts, and Harry’s phone is plucked from his fingers. “Fucking hell, Harold,” he chastises, “were you even looking?”

“‘course I was! Just got a bit distracted, is all.”

Louis rolls his eyes, and doesn’t give Harry his phone back. Harry tries to read over his shoulder to see what Louis’ typing, but Louis swats him away. 

“I said you’re fired, remember? You failed the mission; I’m taking control."

Harry pouts, only half jokingly, and huffs a sigh as he realises he’s not getting his phone back anytime soon. 

“Aha!” Louis cries, sooner than Harry expected really, and his phone is shoved in his face. “Do you have matches?”

“Maybe? I’m not really sure… wait, no. No, I don’t.”

“Of course you don’t.” Louis grabs at Harry’s hand, drops the phone so quickly Harry almost doesn’t catch it in time, and reaches into his pants pocket for something. He digs around for a moment before producing a lighter and a self-satisfied smile. “I believe I’ve just saved our evening,” he says, and gesturing to the hand holding Harry’s phone. “Read me those directions, yeah? Gonna light this bitch right up.”

Harry obeys, if a bit dazedly, and somehow between the two of them they manage to get the hob lit. The kitchen becomes significantly warmer, and Harry would be happier if he wasn’t still mourning Louis’ ruined birthday cake. 

Louis, however, appears to have completely forgot the incident. Harry watches as he swings the fridge door open and sticks his head inside. And then lets out the most indignant squawk. “Why the hell do you have eggnog in here? What the fuck?”

“Don’t leave the door open too long,” Harry says automatically, “or the food’ll spoil.”

“The food can bloody well wait until after you’ve answered for your crimes, Harold.”

“Eggnog,” he sniffs, “is not bad.”

Louis gasps in mock horror. “You’ve been in the states too long, lad. They’ve corrupted you. I bet you didn’t even bother to get mince pies and shit. Too American.”

He’s taking the piss, obviously, but Harry still feels defensive. “I didn’t plan to get stuck here,” he points out, “and I can’t find mince pies here like back home.”

He hears Louis mutter something that sounds like ‘excuses excuses’, which he ignores in favour of searching the cupboards for something they can actually eat. Preferably something simple, and something that Lous will actually eat, picky eater that he is. The problem is that Harry really hasn’t done a big shop in a while, he hadn’t wanted to fill his fridge right before leaving the country, so their options are fairly slim. Not to mention that almost anything in a tin is out, as the electric opener obviously won’t work right now. And while he has a regular one, well...

They’ll just have to find something that’s not tinned, is all. 

“Let’s make pancakes,” Harry says, and then remembers he’s just used up the last of his flour and sugar and eggs on that bloody failed cake. “Never mind,” he sighs, and Louis snorts."

“You weren’t kidding about not having any food. Do you at least have pot noodles or something?”

Harry shakes his head. “Don’t like those.”

“Forgot you were such a food snob.”

“I’m not,” Harry cries indignantly. “I just don’t like pot noodles. There’s not anything wrong with that.” His hand hovers in front of a tin of beans. Louis notices and rolls his eyes. 

“I thought we couldn’t make anything from a tin, thanks to you and your lack of regular fucking kitchen shit.”

“I have a regular one,” Harry admits. “I just…”

“Oh my god, do you not know how to use it?”

“Shut up,” Harry says hotly. “Lots of people don’t know how.”

“Oh, of course. Like, for example, children. Or babies. You’re in right good company there, lad.” Louis leans back against the counter. “Luckily for you, I’m not an actual child - shut up,” he interjects quickly when Harry opens his mouth to disagree. “I mean I can actually look after meself, and open cans unlike _someone_ _here._ And due to my ability to be an actual bloody adult, I elect myself the person in charge of deciding what we eat. So we’ll have those,” he points to the tin of beans, “on toast.” He punctuates his speech by crossing his arms and smirking, and Harry almost wishes he could give Louis what he wants. 

“Can’t make toast, remember? Power cut?”

Louis is undeterred. “Beans on bread then.” 

“Don’t have bread.”

“Are you bloody— Fine.” Louis runs an exasperated hand down his face and sighs. “Please tell me you at least have some decent tea in.”

“Might have,” Harry says, and he honestly can’t remember. There’s the sound of shuffling and some muffled swear words, and then both noises abruptly stop. 

“What the fuck is this?”

Harry turns around to find Louis holding up a box of Yorkshire Tea. The one he vaguely remembers accidentally buying a month or so back. Or maybe not so accidentally, actually. Harry doesn’t quite remember; could have been an odd bout of nostalgia, honestly. He never expected to have to explain his actions. To be fair, he’d never expected to see Louis again, much less let the other man rummage through his cupboards. So. “It’s tea,” he says, forcing his tone to stay breezy even as his heart rate picks up. “Just tea.” He busies himself with figuring out the bloody tin opener, and pretends his can’t see the way Louis keeps glancing over at him. 

Because it’s not just tea, and he knows Louis knows that, too.

~*~

Dinner turns out to be a quiet affair. 

They eat in front of the fireplace - that Louis definitely didn’t have to show Harry how to use - only exchanging the occasional short bit of small talk or appreciative grunt as they finish their simple meal of beans that turned out to be surprisingly delicious. 

Harry manages to talk Louis into watching a film with him on his laptop, so they watch Love Actually (despite Louis’ protests) until the charge runs out and Harry pouts because it was just getting to the good part. 

Everything is going fairly smoothly until they’re taking their plates back to the kitchen. Harry so busy deciding whether or not he’ll bother to do the washing up tonight or save it for the morning when he bumps into Louis. It nearly makes him drop the plate, and he looks to see why Louis has stopped walking. Why he’s standing in the doorway. 

Louis isn’t looking at Harry. Louis is looking up. So Harry looks up too. 

There, hanging above his head - above  _ their  _ heads - is a rather pathetic looking sprig of mistletoe. 

Harry’s hit with a memory then: Nick and Alexa volunteering to help decorate his new house. Nick jokingly hauling an armful of mistletoe in from the car. Harry somehow managing to convince him that one bunch was enough. The mistletoe hanging forgotten for weeks, until now. Harry having no one to kiss.

Until now.

Until this moment, where Harry is stuck - not stuck, frozen - in the doorway with Louis. There’s mistletoe above their heads, and Harry is going to  _ kill _ Nick the next time he’s in town. Assuming Harry survives this moment, that is. 

Because Harry wants to kiss Louis. Harry also does  _ not  _ want to kiss Louis, and that’s a dilemma Harry could not have foreseen happening tonight. Or, probably, like, ever.

Harry can’t recall a time when he hasn’t wanted to kiss Louis. 

Except maybe right now, of course.

Up close, the bags under Louis’ eyes are even more pronounced. There’s a faint violet tinge colouring the area that Harry associates with a significant lack of sleep, and a small cut on his cheek like he’d nicked himself shaving. 

Crows feet and laugh lines shouldn’t be so attractive on a person, but Harry wants to count each individual one. Wants to know the story behind them all. Even the ones that don’t include him. 

(Especially the ones that don’t include him.)

The flecks of grey in his hair are new. They make him look distinguished, almost, even standing there in oversized borrowed clothing and droopy gym socks. It’s just an air he gives off, really. Always has. It’s one of the reasons Harry always knew Louis would grow up to be a proper silver fox. (He’d also thought he’d be around to witness more of the transformation, but that’s beside the point.) 

Harry’s never been more in love. 

And that’s exactly why he can’t do this. Why they can’t do this. 

If their noses weren’t touching before, then they certainly are now. It’s the only reason Harry even knows Louis’ moved in, because everything seems to be moving in slow motion now. Like he’s suspended in jelly or something. Louis’ hand is on his wrist, then his forearm. He feels it gliding up until it hits his shoulder, and Louis’ placing a cool palm on the back of his neck. Harry shivers, but not from the temperature, and gulps as Louis’ eyes flutter shut. 

He waits until the absolute last second to turn his head, and instead of his lips, Louis ends up awkwardly pecking his chin. 

They both take a step back at the same time, and Louis tries to shove his hands in his pockets, but he misses. Harry feels like the worst person in the world right now, but he— He just can’t. Everything is too confusing, and the timing is all wrong. Surely Louis can understand this. Fucking hell, Harry really hopes he can understand. 

Louis looks just as confused as Harry is inside, and for someone who always has something to say, Louis is surprisingly mute now. Somehow that’s worse, somehow that’s what makes Harry feel so raw and exposed; awkward. He considers running away, considers… well, doing something. Weighing his options, and when Louis opens his mouth to finally say something, Harry clears his throat quickly and fakes a yawn. “Well, I’m properly knackered; what about you?”

“I’m—” Louis’ looking at him strangely. Which is fair, Harry thinks, as this whole situation is quite strange. “I still have to do some work,” he says, like he didn’t nearly kiss Harry. Like the two of them didn’t very nearly kiss. Like Harry didn’t just reject him. 

Harry’s priorities take an immediate 180. “What? They can’t do that! They’ve already made you work on Christmas Eve! You’re stuck in Wisconsin with your ex-boyfriend because of these people! You aren’t with your family on your birthday, on the eve of the day that is—”

“Ta for the reminder, love,” Louis interrupts, sounding more tired than Harry feels now. 

Harry stops himself, feeling chastened. “Sorry.” 

“Right,” Louis says, apparently done with the conversation. “So.” He claps his hand together twice. “Sleeping arrangements.” He claps a third time, looks around the living room, and swings his attention back to Harry. “Did you know you don’t have a couch?” Harry nods. “Well that’s daft, innit? Who doesn’t have a couch?” He sounds a bit incredulous, and Harry feels defensive, because his lounge is quite lovely, thank you very much. 

“I do too have a couch,” he shoots back, slightly sharper than intended, and they both look in the direction of the divan. 

“I mean a real couch. That a person can sleep on? That kind of couch?”

Harry blinks, because, well, he’d kind of assumed Louis would want to bunk with him. That’s how it goes in all the movies, after all. “I thought we could share.”

Louis tilts his head. “Aren’t there other bedrooms? I thought I saw a couple when I was upstairs.”

Fucks sake, Harry had been hoping Louis wouldn’t remember. “Right. Yes. You can sleep in one of those. Or. Or you could sleep with me. For, like, the body heat,” he finishes lamely, and cringes internally. 

“Best way to stay warm, innit,” Louis jokes, and Harry ducks his head to hide the way his cheeks have gone pink. “But, no, I think I’ll take you up on the offer of me own room, thanks.”

Harry nods, afraid to speak in case he does something embarrassing like beg (or cry), and takes Louis upstairs to prepare his room. 

~*~

They get ready for bed separately, and the fact that he feels the need to knock before bringing Louis a pair of pyjamas is yet another reminder of how far they’ve grown apart. That Harry is no longer someone who can barge into Louis’ space any time he wants. 

Even Louis seems off, his ‘good night’ awkward and stilted. 

Harry can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop feeling like he’s letting his second chance - his Christmas miracle - slip through his fingers. He should have kissed Louis. He shouldn’t have been afraid. He’d  _ wanted  _ to kiss Louis. And, apparently, Louis had wanted to kiss Harry. Only now Louis probably thinks Harry doesn’t want to kiss him. 

_ Fuck _ .

~*~

Harry doesn’t realise he’d fallen asleep until he’s slowly being roused by an odd sensation on his face. He smiles, because Louis always did love to wake him up like this, pressing his lips all over Harry’s face until he’d squeal and roll away. (Usually dragging Louis along into a proper snogging session.) Only… well, the familiar weight is missing, there’s no dip in the bed, and there’s no familiar scent of Louis - either his cologne or body wash or just natural smell. Nothing. 

It’s then that Harry realises that the dampness on his cheeks isn’t from Louis’ kisses, but tears. 

Fucking hell. 

He can’t do this. Harry can’t do this. He can’t sleep alone, not tonight, and certainly not when absolutely everything is at stake. He just can’t. He’s got to talk to Louis. Now. Like, right now. 

Mind made up and stomach filled with nervous butterflies, Harry marches his way to Louis’ room - well, the room he’s staying in - and almost doesn’t remember that he should knock. He does, and then does again, because there’s no answer. Which makes sense, he reasons, because Louis is most likely asleep. But Harry can’t wait. This can’t wait, so he pushes open the door as quietly as he can, and creeps inside to wake Louis up.

Except the bed is empty. It’s been made, haphazardly so, but it’s devoid of an occupant and just. It’s empty. 

Harry’s stomach drops and he runs out of the room. He looks in the second bedroom, and the third, and by the time he gets to the sixth, he’s moved past panic, past dread, and has settled for depressed acceptance. He lets his head hang, and inhales a shaky breath. 

Because Louis is gone, and Christmas has officially been ruined. 

~*~

Harry pushes open his front door to confirm what he already knows, that Louis has left him, and is surprised to see that Louis’ car is still where he parked it. And, Louis. Well, Louis is still here. On the porch, bundled in what looks like all the blankets from the bed, and then some. 

“I thought you left,” Harry blurts out, and Louis jumps, apparently unaware of Harry’s presence. Harry watches him stub out the cigarette he’d been smoking, and then light another one. There’s a small collection of cigarette butts on the arm of the chair, and Harry’s worried. Chain-smoking means Louis’ really stressed, and Harry doesn’t want Louis to be stressed. He wants Louis to be happy, and smiling, and, well, not to look like he does right now. With his lips pinched and his eyebrows furrowed, cheeks concave as he smokes away. 

“I thought you left,” Harry says again, because maybe Louis didn’t hear him the first time. 

“Sorry. Had to make a phone call.”

“Oh?” Harry prompts when Louis doesn’t elaborate. 

“Yeah, I couldn’t get something to work on my computer, and then the call got a bit. Well, heated, I supposed. So I came out here. Didn’t want to wake you. And I needed to. I don’t know, I needed to think. Need to think. Also, I quit my job.”

Harry blinks in surprise. “Wait, you had a computer with you this whole time?”

Louis’ hand freezes in mid-air, a piece of ash threatening to fall off the end of the cigarette. “Yes?” He flicks it, the ash falls, and Harry is still surprised. “Why do you ask?”

“We could have finished the film!”

Louis looks amused. “That’s what you choose to focus on? Besides, I’m okay with the fact that we didn’t finish the film.”

“We could have watched something else, then. I had other DVDs.”

“Your DVD collection is shit.”

Harry huffs, because  _ honestly. _ “My DVD collection hasn’t changed since as long as I’ve known you.”

Louis flashes him a smile. Wolfish, quick, but no less knee-melting. “I know.”

Harry shoves at him playfully. “You’re an arsehole.”

“I know.”

A beat passes. Then another. Unspoken questions hang in the air, interrupted by Louis’ deep inhalation and even deeper exhale. 

“So,” he says.

“So,” Harry parrots, unintentionally mocking. 

Louis’ smile has become something closer to a grimace. “I suppose I’m unemployed now.”

“You are, yeah. That’s a well known side effect of quitting.” He can’t stop the giggle that escapes, because he’s always been the kind of person to laugh at his own jokes. Louis doesn’t look like he minds, though. “Sorry about that, by the way,” Harry tacks on quickly.

Louis waves a dismissive hand. “Not your fault; been building up for a while, if I’m honest. Just needed a push, is all. So… Thank you, I guess. No, thank you, no guessing. No— Just, thank you.”

Harry turns to look at him, but he just gets a glimpse of Louis’ profile as he blows a stream of smoke into the air, his own frigid breath mingling with the smoke from the cigarette. “Do you know what you’ll do next?” he asks, and watches as Louis works to keep his expression neutral. Surely he knows Harry knows all his tells at this point, but he still seems to think he can lie to Harry. Harry waits for his next words while trying not to seem too invested in what they are. In what Louis’ decision will be. About Louis’ plans, and what they mean for Harry. What they mean for them.

If there’s even a them at all.

“I’ve been out here for a while,” Louis says, and he takes another slow drag, exhales, and goes silent again. Harry wants to shake him, but refrains. “I’ve been out here for a while,” Louis continues, “and I’ve been thinking. About…” He lifts his hand again, and Harry snatches the cigarette from between his fingers. Louis doesn’t stop him, just fixes him with a curious look at Harry puts it between his own lips. 

It hangs there precariously as he says, “Thinking about what?”

“Future,” Louis says. “Plans. I dunno.” His fingers twitch in the absence of something to hold. “You. Us.” He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. “And how those things might, those things could maybe…” Harry is seriously seconds away from strangling him, even though his words - said softly, in a quiet voice, make his heart swell. “Go together? Like,” Louis takes a deep breath, “do you see me as a part of your future?” and then, “If I want to, can I be your future?”

The cigarette finally falls from Harry’s lips, and the moment is nearly ruined by his yelp as he snatches it up and stubs it out on the snow-covered arm of the deck chair. 

“I thought you left,” Harry admits. “When I went into the room and your bed was empty.” It’s not a direct answer to Louis’ question, or even a good one, really, but it’s got to be said.

The kiss Louis presses to the back of Harry’s hand feels almost absent-minded; Harry had barely registered Louis picking up his hand in the first place. Louis doesn’t turn to look at Harry, just stares straight ahead and squeezes Harry’s hand in a way that feels just as unaware. “I couldn’t let you be alone on Christmas,” he says.

“And after Christmas? What about after Christmas?”

“Oh, love,” Louis breathes more than whispers, and Harry’s breath catches in his throat as Louis takes his hand - gently, carefully - and brings it up to his mouth. Harry doesn’t know where he expects it. On the back, maybe. Or even his knuckles. But instead, Louis is uncurling his fist, and without breaking eye contact, kissing each and every one of Harry’s fingertips. It’s the most delicate touch, and he repeats the action on the other hand. Harry holds his breath, because if he exhales or even moves the slightest bit, he runs the risk of shattering this moment. And, well, he’d really rather not do that, thanks. 

Except he does exhale. And he does move. Because Louis, stands, laces their fingers together, and tugs - still gently; so gently - until Harry is standing in front of him. Louis takes his other hand, links them the same way, and then his hands are on Harry’s cheeks. Both of their hands. Harry closes his eyes, heart beating faster as he ever-so-slightly purses his slips. Louis, however, seems to have other ideas, as he moves Harry’s face closer (and goes up on his toes a bit, Harry suspects) and kisses his eyelashes. 

Harry can’t help but blush at that, and it feels like Louis is smiling slightly as those lips are chastely pressed to his forehead, then brushed against his cheeks, then glided down to his neck. Down to the place where it meets his shoulder, and Harry would really like to meet Louis’ mouth. Louis’ mouth never actually touches the skin, but it feels no less passionate. There’s kisses messily pressed to the corner of his mouth. 

Harry might be crying again. Except, no, it’s actually Louis this time, kissing at his cheeks again, definitely smiling now. 

“Hi,” he says, and Harry is neither expecting the steadiness of his voice, or the kiss planted on his nose. The kisses are so distracting that he can’t quite tell if he’s fallen out of sheer clumsiness or was pushed, but somehow Harry finds himself knocked flat on his back. The seat of his trousers and back of his top are slowly growing damper, but he barely notices. Because Louis is staring down at the exposed skin left by his top riding up, and just as quickly as he’d been knocked down, his top is rucked up, his stomach exposed, and Louis’ leaning down until his lips are pressing against the skin directly under Harry’s naval. They don’t register as kisses at first - Harry’s had too many ‘almosts’ today to get his hopes up, if he’s honest - until Louis slows his pace. 

Harry can’t wait any longer. He exposes his freezing fingers long enough to clutch at Louis’ shirt collar and yank. Louis doesn’t even try to resist, just shimmies his way up Harry’s body until he’s very nearly covering Harry’s entire body with his own. It’s quite nice, really, even outside in the freezing cold with damp pyjamas and red noses. None of that matters, not right now. Probably not ever again. 

“Kiss me you fool,” Harry whispers, because he’s seen him. The boy Louis was the first time they did this. All of this. But he also sees the man Louis is now, and bloody hell, he still wants him just as much. 

So Louis kisses him. And he kisses him, and he kisses him, and he kisses him, until Harry is no longer on the ground. He’s backed against the porch railing now, gasping for breath because Louis is kissing him like he’s drowning. Like they both are. It’s…

Well, it’s a lot. 

No longer fueled by adrenaline and fear, Harry feels rather like a puppet whose strings have just been cut. He sways a bit on his feet, and is preparing to call it a bust and just bloody sit down, sleep here maybe, when a pair of strong arms catch him.

“Oh no you don’t, Curly. Can’t have you freezing t’death out here. Your mum would never forgive me.”

“She doesn’t even know you’re here,” Harry says, and Louis rolls his eyes. 

“Why do you always have to have the last word, hmm?”

“No, that’s you,” Harry can’t help but shoot back, because it’s really actually him.

There’s a beat where he thinks Louis’ might respond, only he doesn’t, and when Harry catches a glimpse of his expression in the glow of the porchlight, it’s soft enough to make Harry’s insides go a tad melty. Louis has that effect on him more frequently than Harry would like. It’s rather inconvenient, as it often renders him speechless, and gives Louis the chance to take the last bloody word away from him. 

Although, he must love Louis quite a lot, as he doesn’t even attempt to say anything else after Louis wraps a gentle arm around his waist and whispers, “Let’s go to sleep now, love.” Harry doesn’t try to get the last word, he doesn’t protest as Louis guides him back inside and towards the bedrooms, because this is what he wants. This is what Harry wants. This is how it always should be, he decides. 

And, for the first time since Harry moved into this house, it finally feels like he’s home. 

**Author's Note:**

> [reblog on tumblr <3](http://velvetnoodle.tumblr.com/post/181403256207/harry-cant-help-but-feel-like-its-his-own-fault)


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